by Kruger, Mary
“Ah.” Marcus nodded. “But he didn’t anticipate a five mile journey between buildings.”
Rebecca’s lips twitched. The distances one had to travel in Washington City were among the residents’ most prominent complaints. “It isn’t quite that bad, sir.”
“Perhaps.” He paused. “Three miles?”
She laughed, startling herself. When was the last time she had laughed? “Do you dare to speak so slightingly of my city, sir?” she said, trying to sound repressive, and failing.
“Yes, I dare,” he said, and this time his smile was broad. “Hot, swampy, pestilential—altogether a most charming place.”
Rebecca couldn’t help it; she returned the smile. “Oh, infinitely charming. Particularly when the canal near Pennsylvania Avenue floods.”
The twinkle in his eye deepened. “I fear I missed that. I’ve frequented only the British legation and the President’s House.”
“Paltry,” Rebecca proclaimed, realizing with surprise that she was enjoying herself.
“I hope to remedy the situation soon,” he said, and at that moment a roar went up from the crowd. From their vantage point, Rebecca and Marcus could see the first race beginning, the horses galloping along the turf.
“I’m keeping you from the races. I am sorry.” She turned back to see him regarding her intently. Her hand went to her hat. “What?”
“You have unusual hair, Miss Talbot. If I may make a personal comment.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” She picked at the fingers of her gray kid gloves. She wished he didn’t have a sense of humor, that he wasn’t so handsome or, when he made up his mind to it, so charming. Because she was starting to feel again, and it hurt.
“It needed saying.” He paused. “You are uncomfortable with me. Why?”
Startled, Rebecca looked up. “I’m not.”
“If you keep on as you are, your gloves will be in shreds,” he said, gently. “Is it because I resemble that scoundrel?”
Lips tightening, she looked down at her hands. “Yes.” Partly.
“He must have hurt you.”
“No. To the contrary. He was very kind.”
“Kind?” His voice rose with scorn. “A pirate?”
“Yes. Kind.” She could endure this no longer. “I am feeling better, sir. If you would see me back to my father?”
He seemed about to say something, and then nodded. “Of course.” Rising, he held his hand out to her to help her up, and she took it. Like his arm, it was unexpectedly warm and strong; the hand of a man who worked hard, in contrast with his dandified appearance. Even through her glove his touch burned, and, startled, she looked up at him, to see him regarding her with that intent blue gaze. For a moment she couldn’t look away, and then another roar went up from the crowd, distracting him, giving her the chance to study him. So like Brendan, and yet unlike, too.
Carefully, she pulled her hand free. “Thank you, sir.”
He nodded, bent to collect his handkerchief, and then grasped her elbow, escorting her down the slope to the milling crowd. Oh, she wished he wouldn’t! And, oh, she wished his touch didn’t affect her so, with warmth that spread through her body, thawing feelings and emotions that had been encased in ice for too long. Of all men, why this one?
They reached the crowd just as the second race began. Much to Rebecca’s relief, Marcus left her with her father, and then, with a bow, turned away, to talk with Mr. St. John, a member of the British legation. She was glad of the noise, of people shouting as the horses thundered past, glad of the chaos that masked and matched her feelings. Marcus had reawakened feelings best left alone, and it hurt. Oh, it hurt. It wouldn’t be quite so bad if she knew she wouldn’t see him again, but she would. Father had chosen him as a suitor for Amelia, and that only intensified the pain. Never before had she been jealous of Amelia; never had she begrudged her anything. Now, though, she did. Marcus Brand would be courting her sister, and how would she deal with that?
Some distance away, Marcus glanced back at the Talbot sisters. There was, as he’d noticed earlier, something about the older girl. Not a girl. A woman, who had been through a trial by fire. And yet still she could laugh, though he knew his appearance had been a shock to her. Admirable. She had courage, and somewhere within her there was fire.
“Excuse me, Mr. St. John. Sir,” a voice spoke behind him, and he turned, along with St. John, to see Dee. “Sir Augustus would like a word with you, Mr. St. John.”
“Thank you, lieutenant. I’ll go to him directly. My apologies, sir.” Hillary St. John turned to Marcus. “Even on race day, it seems there’s business to be done.”
Marcus nodded. “I shall watch the races. That is what we’re here for, isn’t it?”
“Among other things.” St. John made his way through the crowd, and Marcus turned his attention back to the racecourse, where the horses were gathered for another heat.
“Trust a bad penny to turn up,” Dee said.
Marcus’s gaze flicked over him, bored. “We never had much to say to each other, Jeremiah. Shall we keep it that way?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t want all your fine new friends”—he encompassed the crowd with a sweep of his hand—“to know what a scoundrel you are.”
Marcus swung his quizzing glass back and forth. “I don’t believe I like the tone of your voice,” he said, mildly. “As I recall, I bloodied your nose more than once when we were growing up.”
Dee’s face darkened. “For which our uncle never seemed to punish you, though he was quick enough to do so with me.”
“Perhaps you deserved it.”
“Damn you!” Dee hissed, stepping forward. “I should—”
“It matters not.” Marcus brushed a piece of lint off his arm. “Neither of us were heirs to his earldom.”
“Maybe not, but you were his favorite. Don’t deny it. You were the one he educated, the one he wished could be his heir. But he changed his opinion of you.” Dee’s face grew smug. “When you deserted your mother.”
“I did not desert her,” Marcus snapped. “I was impressed into the navy. And I’ve always wondered”—his gaze, steely now, bored into Dee—“how the press gang knew where I’d be.”
Dee shrugged. “A puzzle, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.” Marcus’s voice was silky. “But I’ve not forgotten it, Jeremiah, or that she died alone.”
“You’ve done well for yourself.” Dee’s gaze moved contemptuously over Marcus’s fine clothes, and he frowned. “In Baltimore?”
“Mostly.”
Dee’s frown deepened. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d seen you since—”
“Have you known the Talbots long?” Marcus said, abruptly.
Dee nodded. “The older girl is mine.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Talbot’ll see to it the younger one’s properly married. But Rebecca.” His face twisted into a leer. “Now she’s a different kettle of fish altogether.”
Marcus toyed with his quizzing glass, swinging it idly on its chain. “Indeed?”
“Oh, yes. She’s ripe for the plucking. Actually, she’s been plucked once or twice already, it is believed.”
“You are insulting a lady, sir.”
“Lady? Ha. Not her. Everyone knows what she is, it’s only because she comes from a good family that she’s not totally ostracized. But that doesn’t matter to me.” The leer faded, to be replaced by the intent look of a hunter after prey. “I intend to have her.”
Marcus raised his quizzing glass and stared at Dee through it, knowing that his eye would appear grossly magnified. “Indeed?” he said, frostily.
“Indeed. And when I’m done with her, maybe I’ll let you have a try.”
“My apologies for leaving, sir,” St. John said as he rejoined them, saving Dee from receiving yet another bloody nose at Marcus’s hands. “There should be no more interruptions. Ah! The horses are off.”
Marcus let the quizzing glass drop, and ve
ry deliberately turned his back on Dee. “Which are you backing?” he asked, as if nothing untoward had occurred.
“The bay. He’s from Tayloe’s stables, said to be fast.”
“We have met since,” Dee said, abruptly.
Marcus did not turn around. “We have not.”
“We have.” Dee’s face was dark at Marcus’s intentional snubbing. “And I’ll remember. I never forget things like that.”
“Isn’t there someplace you should be, lieutenant?” St. John put in.
“Yes, sir.” Dee saluted. “But if I were you, sir, I’d be careful of the company I keep,” he said, and stalked away.
“My word!” St. John stared after him. “Of all the insults—”
“Pay him no mind.” Marcus pretended to concentrate on the race, now under way. “I will, I assure you.”
“I apologize for him, sir.” St. John turned back to him. “The lieutenant can be rather strange.”
“Think nothing of it. Although I do imagine you have abler men than that in your army. And your navy, as well.”
“Of course, sir!” St. John’s chest puffed up. “Our navy is the finest in the world.”
“So it is. Can’t imagine how the American Navy expects to beat it, even with the new ships,” he said, absently.
St. John stiffened. “Excuse me?”
Marcus glanced at him. “Don’t you know? It’s no secret.”
“No, sir. I’d not heard of any new ships being built for your navy.”
Marcus shrugged. “Perhaps I didn’t hear aright, then. There’s a ship being built in a yard near Baltimore. Someone told me it’s to be a ninety-gun, and there are more being built in other yards.”
“The same as our second-rater,” St. John muttered. “Bigger than anything the Americans have now.”
“It is just a rumor,” Marcus said quickly, looking alarmed. “Do not take it seriously, sir. I’d not like to add to the tension.”
“No, no, you haven’t.” St. John turned. “Excuse me, I see Sir Augustus signaling to me. I must see what he wants.”
“Of course.” Marcus watched as St. John crossed to the group of British diplomats, his lips tucked back in what might have been a smile. That was a day’s work well done.
Satisfied with himself, Marcus returned his attention to the racetrack, and his gaze encountered Rebecca. She was staring at him, lips caught between her teeth, a little frown puckering her brow, though when she saw him watching she quickly turned away. Marcus’s ebullient mood faded. For there lay a greater danger than even that posed by Dee. And just how was he going to handle it?
The clock in the circulating library chimed, making Rebecca start. Later than she’d realized, and if she weren’t home to see to dinner, Father would be displeased. Still, she was loathe to return home. It was a warm day, and Bridge Street was a-bustle, with people visiting the shops, and carriages and drays trundling along the cobblestones. Outside Suter’s Tavern a man idled on a bench, while underneath the shade of a dogwood tree in full bloom a dog lolled, panting. There was so much life and energy that Rebecca longed to go out in it, be a part of it, even though she knew she never could be. Her past misdeeds and her father’s obduracy kept her confined to the house she now regarded as a prison.
Sighing, she paid for her books and hurried out the door. She was brought up short when a man suddenly loomed up before her. “Oh!” she exclaimed, her parcels tumbling to the ground. “Excuse me—”
“The fault was mine.” Marcus Brand bent and began gathering everything up with an elegance of motion that was graceful, but quite unlike the way Brendan would have crouched in the same situation. But she must stop comparing him to Brendan, even if the resemblance were startling. “My apologies. I did not mean to bowl you over.” He rose, and she thought she saw that twinkle in his eyes again. “Excuse me, is something wrong?” he added.
“Wrong? Oh, no.” She stepped back, flushing, realizing she’d been staring. “I’m sorry, you startled me. If you’ll just give me my purchases, I won’t keep you.”
“Nonsense.” The word was clipped. “I’ll see you home.”
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary—”
“It will be my pleasure.” He grasped her arm firmly. Uncomfortably aware of the warmth of his touch, Rebecca had no choice but to walk along with him. Why in heaven’s name did he wish to stay with her? “I’ve a carriage here.”
Rebecca stopped, her eyes widening just a bit at sight of the carriage to which he led her. It was a gig, perched high above the street on two wheels, their spokes picked out in yellow. Altogether a dashing and stylish vehicle, exactly what she should have expected from him. What startled her was how much she suddenly wished to drive in it. “Yours, sir?”
“I find it convenient, with the distances between here and the capital.” With a hand on her elbow he helped her into the carriage, and then climbed in beside her, taking up the reins with quick, competent motions. Once again she focused on his hands, and had to look away, suddenly dizzy.
Trying to block out her awareness of the man beside her, Rebecca concentrated on the passing scene and the novelty of traveling in such a way. Marcus drove expertly, threading the gig past heavy carts stopped before Georgetown Market, and picking up pace when the street ahead was clear. To either side of her shops and homes and trees fairly flew by, and the wind in her face carried with it a hint of coolness from the river below. For the first time in nearly a year she felt alive, exhilarated, and it was all because of the man beside her. Pulling at the fingers of her gloves, Rebecca dared to glance at him from under the brim of her bonnet. If he didn’t plan to speak with her, why had he taken her up?
“Do you have business in Georgetown, sir?” she asked.
“No. I lodge here, with a Mrs. Sally, near Holy Hill,” he said, naming the area of Georgetown where the college was located. “Did you not know?” he went on, at what must have been her evident surprise.
“No. Why should I? I thought perhaps you were staying near the British legation.”
“Ah. Is that disapproval I hear?”
“Far be it from me to disapprove anything you do, sir.”
“But you do. I am sorry, madam.”
Something in his voice made her look up to see that his eyes were twinkling. It was the outside of enough. “Pray don’t mock me, Mr. Brand,” she said, shifting away from him on the dark blue leather seat.
“Ah. I was right.”
She shouldn’t ask, she knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help it. “About what?”
“About your hair. You’ve a temper.”
Her lips firmed. In her mind she heard another voice, saying much the same thing. “You hardly know me well enough to make such a personal comment, sir.”
“Does no one ever tease you, Miss Talbot?”
“No.” Her voice was flat. “No one.”
“Then your life must be dull.”
“I enjoy my life,” she said, but even to her own ears she sounded defensive. “You’ve no right to imply otherwise.”
“No, I suppose I don’t,” he said, with absolutely no hint of apology. “Do you enjoy reading?”
“Yes.” She turned to him. She didn’t know this man. She didn’t know if she could trust him. “Please, when you next see my father, don’t tell him we met at the circulating library.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“He doesn’t approve of novel reading. Or poetry. Or anything that is not serious or religious.”
“But you read them anyway.”
“Just in this past year. Do you read poetry, sir?” she asked, before he could question that statement.
“Some, though I prefer history.”
A little imp inside her pushed her on. “Do you know John Donne?”
“A bit. ‘Death be not proud, though some have called thee—’”
“Yes, I know that one,” she said, deeply, irrationally disappointed. In her mind she again heard another voice, similar in timbre
but not in cadence, reciting quite different lines. If she’d needed another reminder that he was not Brendan, she had it. “I turn here, sir.”
He nodded, turning the gig with ease onto the hilly street, climbing away from the waterfront and the bustling business district. The homes here were larger, with more space between them. “Have I offended you in some way?”
She didn’t look at him. “No.”
“I have, haven’t I.” He stopped the gig, laying his hand on her arm. “Your eyes give you away. No, don’t look away.” His own eyes were soft. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry, lass.”
Her head jerked up. “What did you call me?”
“‘Lass.’” He frowned, and then his face cleared. “Too informal, I know, for our acquaintance. My apologies. It is what I call my sister.”
“Oh.” She looked away, unreasonably disappointed. She did not wish him to regard her as a sister, and that was a shock. “We are nearly to my house. You may let me down here.”
“Very well. I shall come with you.”
“You needn’t,” she protested.
“I would like to,” he said. He tied the reins to a hitching post and helped her down, not releasing her arm, even when she again stood on solid ground. It was too much. The feelings his touch evoked in her were too much. She pulled away. “What do you want of me, Mr. Brand?”
He looked surprised. “The pleasure of your company, madam, nothing more. I enjoyed meeting you and your sister the other day.”
“Oh,” she said, flatly. “I see.”
“Do you? And what, precisely, do you see?”
“I am not stupid, Mr. Brand—”
“No, you’ve reminded me of that.”
“—and I’ve spoken with my father about this. Do you intend to court my sister?”
“What? No.” He shook his head. “No, Miss Talbot, I can assure you that I definitely do not intend to do so.”
She pulled at her gloves again, confused at the emotions within her. “Then I suggest you not toy with her affections.”
“I won’t. The truth is, she’s not the one I’m interested in.” He paused, but she didn’t respond, staring straight ahead. “Do you not care who has taken my fancy?”